


He cares

by ChocoNut



Series: Tales of love (Season 3/4) [45]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jaime is an idiot, but he also cares, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28874550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: When Brienne falls ill at King’s Landing, Jaime makes it a point to visit her every evening. It starts off with the usual friction that’s associated with the knight and his lady, but as always, all’s well eventually.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Tales of love (Season 3/4) [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1483640
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	He cares

**Author's Note:**

> After some smut, here's some banter, some fluff. This takes place sometime before Joffrey's wedding.  
> Thank you for reading!

“You’ve been down with this for a while and you never felt the need to let me know?” Jaime snaps at the tired woman, pushing aside, for a moment, his real intent of coming here, the urgency that drove him to leave all else and rush to her side. “You’re—you’re just _impossible_.”

What the hell is wrong with him? He’s here to offer her comfort like anyone would with a sick person in need of tender love and care, but all he can feel is a burning irritation at her decision to suffer in solitude.

“It’s just a fever.” She trivializes it in a tone that means it’s none of his concern, a shrug that makes it appear as if she’s merely stubbed a toe. “Maester Qyburn’s had a look—”

“I don’t trust that old cunt,” he flares up again, finding an excuse to misdirect his anger. “He—”

“—is competent enough to treat my ailment,” Brienne defends her _savior,_ and this adds up to what he’s feeling, building more layers onto whatever is weighing him down. “And Lady Sansa has made sure I get what I need—”

“Does the whole castle know about it except me?” Shaking his head in exasperation, he perches on her sickbed. That she’s chosen to turn to someone else instead of even sparing a thought towards him, that Sansa should be the one to ask after her needs feels far from appropriate. “Who else has been here?” he wants to know. “Margaery? Anyone else I’m not acquainted with—”

“No one except you,” she glumly admits, as if he isn’t good enough company. “But no one need take the trouble,” she goes on, pumping some life into her voice. “I’m fine.”

If rage were to be comprised of fumes, he’d be letting a few puffs off his nostrils and ears right now. “You’re not pleased to see me, I take it.” 

She drags herself to a seated position, and chin up, locks eyes with him as if just to prove she’s _fine_. “It isn’t worth the trouble—”

“Since you can’t go out, you need someone to keep you company for a while everyday—”

“I don’t,” she declines, her feeble voice not exactly supporting her conviction. “I can take care of myself—”

“—and I’m going to be making a visit here every evening,” he goes on, uncaring of her refusal.

“You don’t—”

“Oh, I will.” He gets up to leave. “If you think Sansa or someone else will keep you better company, you’re sorely mistaken. No one here knows you enough.” He holds the door, turns to her. “No one else is going to put up with you.”

+++++ 

“I brought you some soup, wench. Thought it might do you good in this state.”

“A special concoction to help ease your congestion,” he explains further when the woman accompanying him sets down a bowl by her bedside.

Brienne sits up, surprisingly looking surprised, despite his blatant announcement that he isn’t planning to let her suffer this alone.

The handmaiden steps out with a quick murmur of greeting. “You didn’t have to,” she goes again as soon as they’re alone, crushing something inside him. “Sansa makes sure supper reaches me on time—”

“Sansa again, huh?” Yes, the wench’s loyalties lie with the girl’s slain mother. And yes, he’s fully aware that she’d eventually take her charge and take leave of him for good, but competing with her for Brienne’s attention isn’t something he’d bargained for. This thought stamps all over whatever she's crushed inside him.

But what is he to do except let this pass without it affecting him? If she prefers others over him, so be it. Who is he to question or approve of her choices?

“What bothers you?” she asks, looking up at him over the rim of the bowl.

“Nothing at all.” He straightens, puts together whatever she’s shattered within him.

“You’re frowning,” she notes, those incredibly beautiful eyes tearing open his mind like a hawk. “Ser Jaime, you don’t need to consider it your duty to make sure I’m well fed and cared for.”

_Yes. Because someone else got there before me. And you’d be better off keeping away from me._

“Since you seem far from keen to entertain my company, or worse, perhaps, resent my visits—” he gets up, resolves this is the last he’ll see of her, tells himself he isn’t going to bother whether she’s dead or alive “—I will leave you to the solitude you are, at this very second, craving I piss off and let you have, my lady.”

That came out in more words than those circling in his head, but now that he’s expressed himself, he feels somewhat— _better_? 

Yes, better.

And yes, this will stop bothering him soon. Not wanting to wait for the reaction he knows he’ll get, he swiftly makes it out of there, makes up his mind to take a brisk walk to get rid of this annoying sensation in his chest. 

+++++

“I thought you made it clear you won’t visit again.”

The lines on her forehead—are they an outcome of her displeasure at his intrusion? Or does the wench frown even when she’s surprised? Maybe she does. But it isn’t his concern. He’s here for a specific reason and has every intention of making himself scarce as soon as the deed is done.

“I came here to give you this.” He pulls out a vial of the clear liquid the old maester had handed him. “Qyburn is away, and since your precious Sansa would surely not prefer to come here in person to administer this—” 

“I can—” she starts to object, when he gestures to her to open her mouth, but when he answers her with a glare, she relents, accepts it when he lets a few drops drip into her lips. 

“You could’ve had one of the maids bring it to me,” she says, when he secures the bottle on her bedside table.

Something rises inside him at her suggestion. “Maybe, I ought to have,” he bitterly agrees, holding back to himself how much he fears an attempt on her life. As far as Cersei’s concerned, she’s a Stark spy, their enemy, so how could he trust anyone here when she’s so weak and vulnerable?

But then, she’d never be able to see that, would she? Even if he did happen to tell her what good might possibly come of that?

“You’re right.” He balls his sweaty fingers to a fist. “Why should I care who attends to you? It doesn’t matter to me if you spend your nights in a deep slumber or tossing around sleepless—” He turns away. “Why should I care if—”

He leaves it at that, knowing, in his heart, that he cannot bring himself to finish that sentence.

+++++

“I brought you flowers—” Never to have approached a woman like this, he finds it a bit strange, decides to explain. “Apparently it’s something that speeds up healing—or so I have been told.” He hands her a huge bunch of freshly cut assortment of the choicest blooms from the royal gardens. “While I took care not to pick roses, I didn’t know what you liked. So I got a few of everything else.”

Brienne accepts his gift, gapes at him wide-eyed.

“I would’ve fetched you some wine as well,” he continues, guilt from yesterday’s behaviour wearing him down, “but I don’t know if you’re well enough to have any. So—”

“How do you know I can’t stand roses?”

Jaime walks past her to take his usual place on her bed. “I have my ways of finding out, wench.”

She slowly follows, lost in thought, as if trying to decide whether to believe him or not. 

“I also came to tell you that I have been making progress in my training,” he says, when she sits down, dodging what he’s really here for.

“Remarkable,” is all he can get from her before she’s lost to him again, trapped in the web of the thoughts he’s dying to read.

“You must come watch us one day,” he invites. Deep down he’d have preferred training with the wench, instead, but the fear of rejection keeps him from voicing his desire. “You could probably—” He stops, distracted by her lack of interest. “Are you even listening to me, Brienne?”

“Huh?” She snaps back, folds her legs to draw her knees to her chest. “Yes, of course—” 

“Listen—” He glances at the flowers as if they’d supply him with whatever it takes to admit it to her. “I may have spoken harshly yesterday,” he accepts, in the best possible way he can. “And before that—”

“Are you apologizing?” He has her attention now. “Is that what the flowers are for?”

“The flowers are because this happens to be my last visit to you.” Of course, he cannot come here from tomorrow. Such a meeting would be highly inappropriate when she’s well.

“Oh. Well, I—” Her eyes dart to the bluebells beside her, then return to him again. “I don’t exactly resent your company, Ser Jaime,” she admits in a small voice.

“Come now,” he teases, his heart soaring higher than it should. “Don’t you get used to me so much or you’ll miss me when we part company.”

“I am _not_ getting used to you,” she asserts with an unnecessary emphasis on the _‘not’,_ making it firmer than he’d have wanted it to be. “And I’m _not_ going to miss you, ser.”

+++++ 

“Ser Jaime, what brings you—”

She stops talking when he edges past her, those inquisitive eyes demanding an explanation when he shuts the door and turns to her. Jaime takes in the woman before him, glad that she’s now back in the pink of her health. A dull ache in his chest sets back his relief when he remembers she’s just a guest in his house, just like she’s been one in his life for almost the past year.

“I came here to—” He runs his fingers through his hair, paces a few useless steps before he can get back to her. Why is this so damn difficult? “I have no excuse tonight, Brienne.” 

His mind rushes to what he’s gone through in the last few days—his anxiety at her suddenly taking ill, the apprehension that her weakness might be taken advantage of, his mild envy for Sansa and the special place the girl has in Brienne’s life. Every minute he’s spent with her—it has brought him both tension and relaxation, each parting leaving him eager to see her again the next day. 

“I kept coming here because I care, my lady.” He takes her hand in his. It’s time to be honest now. To her. To himself. “I care _a lot_.”

Her eyes tell him this visit is not in vain. “I’m glad you came,” she says, her voice softer than the softest it has ever been. “Because if you stopped—” When her gaze holds his this time, he’s finally drawn into the web he’s been yearning to enter. Now, he can see it all. He can see what he feels for her. “I did get used to you. And I _will_ miss you when we—” Dejection creeps in to cast a shadow over her face. “Now that I have recovered, I must leave soon, Ser Jaime—”

“Yes, you must,” he whispers, despite wishing for this night to never end, for her hand to never part company with his. “But I promise, one day, we will meet again.”

 _You will be mine and I, yours,_ he tells her with the kiss he plants tenderly on her lips.

When she closes her eyes and melts into his touch, he knows this truly wonderful day is not far off.


End file.
